In Memoriam

Good-bye, jeans. You've served me well these past few years. I know I haven't spent much time with you since last spring, but please know that I miss you, and I always loved you. I miss your casualness and comfort. I miss your buttons and zippers. I miss rolling out of bed on a weekend (or messy project day), throwing you on with a long-sleeved T or sweater and sneakers, checking out my non-tank sized butt, and starting my day. You made me look and feel good. My heart is truly cracking for the time we could have spent together and the time we'll never have. I'm sorry I never truly apprecaited you. Please know that if we are ever reunited (either in this life or the next), I will give you the love and attention you deserve.
Good-bye shirts and sweaters that don't say "Maternity" on the tag. Every time I put one of you on, I know it's the last time. My eyes blur as I write this just thinking of a year (at least) without my striped rugbys, jcrew button-ups, and solid colored polos that made my decently sized and shaped boobs look great. I looked forward to the time we'd spend together, and I'd plan all the different pants and skirts I could wear with you. You could make any outfit casual or dressy, depending on the bottoms I put you with. Please forgive me for not utilizing you as much as I could have.
Good-bye dry clean only clothes. Please forgive my neglect in not taking you to the cleaners when I should have. You truly brightened my wardrobe, and it crushes my spirit to know we will not be reunited any time soon.
I will always love all of you-my dark jeans and black and white striped stretchy sleeveless shirt I wore on my 3rd date with Husband, my jean skirt and Bronx T I wore on our first date, the striped pants from the Ann Taylor outlet in Williamsburg, the long-sleeved rugbys I bought at the outlets when I should have been attending a conference. You've left me with memories and credit card bills to last the rest of my life, and I thank you for that.

Fat Clothes

Yesterday, Husband and I did something scary. We went to the mall, frightening in itself, but then, we went to a store that specifically sells clothes for girls who've managed to get themselves in the family way. I think I would have felt more comfortable had we been on safari and ravenous, ravenous rhinos were charging our jeep. I was relieved when we entered the store and Husband was not the only man-person in there. Another couple, who looked to be our age, and VERY Catholic were also in the store. This poor, domesticated husband was not only forced to go to a store of this nature, but he was also forced (chose?) to go into the dressing room with his wife. After they picked out a few clothes, she stayed in the dressing room, instructing him on which clothes to bring her next. But this is about my adventure, not anonomyous Catholic couple's adventure. I started lightly flipping out when Husband and I went into the store, and he told me to stop being silly and why was I flipping out. He'd just heard my treatise on why I didn't want to go into the store (I think it's totally normal to worry about jinxing things, but apparently the rest of the world doesn't share this view), so I understood why patience might have been a little thin. I picked out a pair of pants and carried them around, dragging my feet and pouting. Husband, always a good sport, then started picking out clothes for me. It went something like this.
Husband: Do you like this shirt/pants/sweater?
Me: Yes.
Husband: Here. (Thrusts item of clothing at me)
Repeat. Several times.
When I had four or five items, I attempted to find a dressing room. The first one was occupied by the other couple. Honestly, had they not already procreated (and been wearing a sweatshirt proclaiming devotion to Mary), I would have assumed that that's why both halves of the couple were in the dressing room. I passed on the other four because they each had a massive, massive bra in them. When I realized that all of the dressing rooms had bras with enough padding that I could have comfortably napped on them in the dressing room, I chose one and started trying on. Pants and skirts in this store all come with a fourteen inch elastic panel where a zipper and button should be. Being unsure what to do with said panel that reaches to my boobs, I folded it down a few times and went to show Husband my outfit. He approved and handed me several other items of clothing.
While modeling one particular sweater/pants combo, the lone employee at the store happened to notice me. She informed me that the size I was wearing was too small (it felt okay to me), that I needed a medium (I was already wearing a medium), and she'd be happy to go get me one. I nodded and smiled, and while she aquired the proper size, she explained the bras in the dressing room. They're not bras. They're "3 month pillows." 3 month pillows are egg shaped pillows with a velcro strap attached on both sides so a person can strap the pillow to her stomach and see what she'll look like three months later. In three months, I will look like I have an egg shaped tumor growing out of my pregnant stomach.
Despite my impending tumor, I found that fat-girl clothes are actually quite comfortable, and will happily recommend them to all my friends, knocked up or not.